


In the Open

by kedgeree



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inceptiversary, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Inception Bingo, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Pre-Relationship, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7503390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur doesn't know what to do when Eames gets the news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Open

**Author's Note:**

> For the Inception Trope Bingo card "spooning"

Arthur recognized the name as soon as he saw it, center screen of the news channel they kept on in the background all day. A black and white photo of a white-haired, sour-mouthed man with tight eyes. A set of dates: 1953-2016. Footage of an older and a younger woman, huddled together in the grey drizzle between their flower-wreathed terrace house door and waiting black sedan. Family, no doubt, although Arthur didn't recognize them—Eames's file had never included their photos.

But Arthur recognized the father's name.

Eames had seen it, too. Flicked a glance at the screen, and then turned to stone, expressionless, unblinking.

Arthur's heart began to pound an urgent warning.

"Back to work!" Their guard jammed the butt of his 1997 HK SL8 into Eames's shoulder, taunting. "Not paid to watch the TV."

If Eames cracked…if he cracked at all…

With his face schooled to bland disinterest in Eames's encounter with the guard, Arthur reached casually for a notepad. The movement disguised the forward shift of his weight to the edge of his chair, braced on the ball of his foot so he could come up fast if he had to. Take this one's throat, twist, use him for a shield against the other one in the corner. But wasn't optimal—Eames was in the open.  Ordinarily, Arthur wouldn't have given that a moment's thought, because Eames always knew what to do. When it counted, Eames and Arthur, they thought, moved like one person.

Except—a muscle in Arthur's cheek twitched as the television screen flickered in his peripheral vision—maybe not this time.

But Eames just lowered his eyes to their work table and said, soft and mild, "Arthur, would you pass me the Vinoskey folder?"

 

***

 

They didn't have their totems, not wanting to risk having them confiscated by Dmitri's men, but Arthur saw Eames rubbing his thumb and forefinger together every time his hands were idle.

He considered risking a scribbled note on one of the documents they were passing back and forth under ever-watchful eyes, but what would he even say? _My condolences?_ _Are you okay?_ How would that be helpful? Arthur had always been shit at this sort of thing. He wasn't exactly known for his warmth, even by people who liked him, and he and Eames had always hated each other. Hadn't they? They'd kept a lid on their usual bickering since they'd started the job, professional to the point where every one of Eames's polite _pleases_ and _thank yous_ was like metal scraping the backs of Arthur's teeth. To the point where Arthur was spoiling for a fight. But they couldn't show any weakness, not now. Nothing to rattle Dmitri. No disagreements, no distractions, no fear.

Certainly no grief.

It was all going to be down to Eames, the double cross, once they were in the dream. The extraction was happening tomorrow, but that didn't mean Dmitri wouldn't start all over with a new team if he lost faith in them. Best case, they were off the job. Worst case…well, worst case was what had happened to the last team.

After all, there were plenty of good thieves.

 

***

 

"Keep quiet. Is sleep time. No talking," the guard had warned them on their first night in their shabby, shared sleeping quarters—two flat mattresses on either side of an otherwise bare room. "You talk, I shoot."

"Understood," Eames had answered, because he just _had_ to push, didn't he? "Not a peep."

The guard's laugh was ugly, but he went for his back pocket instead of his gun and threw two battered-looking condom packets into their room. "Here. This keep you busy. Keep _pretty mouth_ busy." He guffawed, red-faced, at his own drollery, and Arthur had taken the moment to picture what the man would look like with a knife in his throat. Arthur had a good imagination that way.

Once the guard was slouched down in his chair outside their curtained door, Eames had blown up one of the condoms like a balloon, winking as he tapped the ridiculous thing into the air toward Arthur.

There were no games tonight. There were none of Eames's usual completely inappropriate and infuriating leers, sneaky smirks, or silent laughter. In the yellow glow from the security lights outside their high window, Eames stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers without meeting Arthur's eyes once, crawled onto his mattress, and rolled over to face the wall. But as often as Arthur had frowned down Eames's irreverence, its sudden absence felt horribly wrong. Eames would never have those deep frown lines that had scored his father's face. Eames loved to laugh. He would have crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

How had Arthur felt when he'd lost his own father? He hardly remembered. He was just a child. Bewildered, mostly. But Arthur had loved his father. Eames and his father…that was more complicated. And then there was Mal, and Arthur had loved her, too. So much. When they lost her, Arthur wasn't a child any more, but he'd felt just as bewildered as he had when he was seven years old. And confused. And helpless.

And so very, very alone.

He moved before he could begin to think himself out of it, crossing the room so noiselessly that Eames started when Arthur eased his weight onto Eames's mattress. "Shh," Arthur whispered, barely audible, more of a sigh, and he curled himself around Eames's hunched back.

Eames tensed, neck muscles cording as he jerked his head around and bared his teeth at Arthur in a silent growl. His eyes were dark, flatly wary, his breathing unsteady.

Arthur lowered his gaze, leaned in, and rubbed his face across Eames's shoulder, and Eames _shuddered_. "Shh," Arthur sighed again, and drew Eames into his arms.

The kiss came bruisingly hard. Eames's mouth was wet, tasted of salt, and he used his teeth more than his tongue. His fingers dug deep into the back of Arthur's neck. Arthur opened up, let Eames bite and lick his frustration into him, and returned his kisses with enough force so he knew Arthur was _there_. Arthur was rock hard, fast, against Eames's hip, and he let Eames feel that, too, like somehow the press of his wanting cock might offer the sort of hot-edged comfort that Arthur would never, ever be able to find the words to speak aloud.

As Eames's fury began to ebb, the kisses slowed, and the hands twisted in Arthur's shirt and hair loosened their grip.  Eames breathed into Arthur's mouth for a long time, then, gulping breaths at first, and then deep, slow inhales, exhales, until he finally blew out one long sigh and sagged into Arthur's embrace. He didn't resist when Arthur pulled the thin, scratchy blanket up over their bodies, arranged Eames's arms and legs underneath, and fitted himself against Eames, curved once again around his back, the closest thing to a shield he could be.

Arthur stayed awake, petting Eames in his sleep, for a long time after.

At least, he thought Eames was asleep.

 

***

 

The job went off perfectly.

Eames was _flawless._

Eames was also dialed up to eleven. Unshaven, hair slicked back, silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down to his pleated trousers to show off three rows of gold neck chains. A matching gold watch flashed on his wrist as he clapped a guard on the shoulder, his expression almost gormlessly carefree. He threw back his head when he laughed. He had one of Dmitri's celebratory, completely-oblivious-he'd-been-had cigars tucked into his breast pocket.

They'd be coming for him soon enough, though, because while Dmitri was "extracting" from Eames's forgery of the mark, Arthur got the real goods. And oh, yes, they'd be coming for Dmitri soon. Arthur smiled benignly into his smug, jovial face as they shook hands. The payment's been wired, Dmitri said, but for once Arthur honestly couldn't give a shit about the money.

"I assume we're free to go now."

Eames turned, slung a heavy arm over Arthur's shoulder and the other over Dmitri's. "Oh, I do hope so, because I have a date in Rome with a gelato." He winked broadly. "And a lovely little lady called Gia."

"Yes, go! You have earned good fuck, I think, yes?" Dmitri was all smiles, his rifle propped up forgotten in one corner.

Arthur's hand twitched by his trouser seam.

 

***

 

They parted ways at the terminal, like so many times before.

Unlike the times before, Eames stopped Arthur as he started to walk away, a hand on his arm in the middle of the bustling crowd. He'd dropped the self-caricature routine outside the glass doors of the airport, and Arthur could see the shadows beneath his eyes already starting to deepen as Eames stared over Arthur's shoulder into the distance.

When Eames still said nothing, Arthur offered an uncomfortably perfunctory, "Well done, Eames." He cleared his throat and tried again. "You were…you're amazing."

"We both did what we had to do." Eames's eyes shifted to Arthur's, cool grey and distant. "For the job. Right?"

Arthur and Eames had always hated each other. Hadn't they? They'd hated each other from the first moment Eames smirked at skinny, upstart, uptight Arthur in his one good suit and the first moment Arthur looked Eames's tastelessness up and down and let his lip curl in disdain, and the fact that they worked so well together didn't mean they didn't hate each other.

Except that Arthur didn't hate Eames. At all. He never had. "It wasn't for the job."

Eames looked away, the corners of his mouth tightening, lips pressing white. He squeezed Arthur's arm.

"Have a safe flight to London, Mr. Eames," Arthur said softly.

 

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you nolaespoir and bakerstmel for looking this over! xx


End file.
